America's Patriot
by Sarpndo
Summary: The United States of America is disbanded, it's land and people belong to another power. It has been this way for generations. But there are a few who still subscribe to the Ideals that built the nation. What happens when one of these people meets the dying embodiment of the nation? Mostly a one-shot, unless more ideas happen.


**Yeah, alright, I fic'd. It's _basically_ a self-insert, but also not because the person/narrator is very, very ungendered, unspecific, save for the fact that the person is blonde with lighter skin.**

**Um...yeah...I'm super American, super patriotic and I was just reading a whole bunch of fics and this just kinda happened...anyway, it's not happy, not even sad, it just is. Anyway...read it.**

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The United States of America. Few people remembered it. Few people remembered what it stood for. Even fewer remembered its history, the Declaration of Independence. And the Constitution had long been buried in some foreign archive.

Life hadn't changed much, the continent was still there, people lived, people died, but the ideals had all but vanished.

_We hold these truths to be self-evident,_

I laughed with my friends, drinking tea at one of the small cafes along the street. The street was bustling in the mid-afternoon sunlight, and we were taking a break from classes. We spoke English, but it wasn't their first language. No, they were practicing for class. I had been raised in an English-speaking home, but, the expected language was Chinese. I ran my fingers slightly through my sandy blonde hair, trying to ignore my envy of their chocolate locks.

I was unusual, a minority, cultures had assimilated, and our colors had darkened over the hundreds of years. American was just an ancestral term now.

_that all men are created equal._

As they continued talking, one of the people moving along the street caught my eye. He was blond, like me, but walked as though he carried the weight of a thousand years upon his shoulders. I frowned and returned to the conversation at hand. "I mean, I wish our professors gave us less homework."

"We're in college."

"Oh whatever. It's just not fair."

_that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights,_

"At least you don't have to design a floor plan every week."

"I'd rather do that than math."

"Why are you doing math then?!"

"Because I've got an aptitude for it."

My friends glanced at me. "What about you?"

"I liked reading."

They smiled. "Oh you book worm, dreaming of ideals that existed hundreds of years ago. Is that what studying history means?"

I smiled. "Of course it does. Old stuff, old people, old ideas."

"Woah! Hold up! We've got a revolutionary on our hands."

I laughed.

_that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness._

We finished our tea and parted ways. I made my way through the streets, leaving the busyness of City Central and entering a much quiet part of town. As I approached my apartment building, I heard a hacking cough. I froze and turned toward the sound, walking down a narrow alley. Hiding behind some dumpsters was the man I had seen earlier.

"Hey, are you okay?" I asked in Chinese.

He coughed again, his whole body shaking as blood spattered between his fingers. I immediately rushed to his side. "Hey, come on," I said. "Let me call an ambulance or something." In my distress I reverted back to English. He looked at me, clouded blue eyes filled with a glimmer of hope, but he shook his head.

I sighed and waited until he had finished another coughing fit. I pulled him to my feet, shocked at how light he was, despite his obvious height. "I can't leave you out here."

"Th-thank you," he coughed. "But it's not worth your time."

"Shut up and come on."

I managed to drag him up the stairs and into my apartment, though we had to stop several times when a coughing fit made it impossible for him to move. We got into my apartment and I lay him on my couch before shutting and locking the door.

"Are you sure I shouldn't call an ambulance?" I was still speaking English, but, somehow, it felt right around this man I had just met.

He shook his head, coughing. "No, they can't help me."

"You're obviously sick -"

He shook his head all the more. "I've been sick for a long time. It's not something anyone can fix."

I sighed. "Do you want anything to eat?"

He shrugged, coughing again. "I'd love a good old-fashioned burger," he was smiling bitterly, "but whatever you've got is fine."

"If you wait, I could make you a burger."

He sat up so quickly I thought for sure he would get whiplash. His eyes were wide. "You can make hamburgers?" He crumpled in another fit of coughing.

I nodded. "Yeah, I always loved eating them when I was a kid. My dad made the best burgers. Not that I ever had them anywhere else."

He looked at me with a smile, his clouded blue eyes seemed a little brighter, and I could see something in them, an intense knowledge and age that defied his sickly appearance of youth. The image was shattered as he doubled over in another bout of coughing. When he was finished he nodded. "Could you do that? Make me a burger?"

I smiled and nodded. "Of couse. Any excuse to eat American food."

He seemed startled by the name. "A-American."

"Well, yeah, that's the origin, even if it's been resigned to the history books." I sighed and got a far away look in my eyes. "I know history says so many bad things about the USA, but I wish I had lived in that time. To imagine that kind of patriotism," I trailed off and noticed the man staring at me with a mixture of pure pain and sheer adoration. It was a strange combination to say the least, especially on his young face.

I felt as though I knew him, but shook off the feeling and bustled about the kitchen of my studio apartment, making my dad's old burger recipe. My dad said he got the recipe from his father, who got it from his mother, who got it from his father, in a time, when barbecues were still part of the national culture. Back when my family was still American.

I shook off the feelings of disappointment and longing and finished the burgers, plating them and bringing them over to the man. He seemed to be asleep, but I knew he needed to eat. I set the plates down and shook his shoulder gently.

He awoke suddenly, and grabbed my wrist in a painful hold that was surprisingly strong. His blue eyes flashed dangerously, and then they faded and he released me, apologizing as he coughed. Despite his young age, he seemed like a soldier. I helped him sit up and handed him a plate. His eyes grew wide. "God, I haven't had one of these since -" his voice trailed off and I smiled sadly.

"Yeah, nobody eats this kind of stuff anymore. It's basically been banned, on the claims that it's 'unhealthy' and 'fattening'." I shrugged. "Doesn't stop me."

He was already halfway through the burger. He smiled at me and swallowed. "I like you."

I shook my head and laughed. "If you say so, Mr. I was coughing in a alley now I'm eating a hamburger like it's the last food I'll ever have."

He smiled. "It very well could be."

I frowned. "That's not even fair."

He shrugged. "It's not a big deal. I've accepted my fate. But, I thank you for your hospitality," then he said my name.

I sighed and frowned, concerned that he was so okay with dying as a sick, homeless man. Then I jumped and stared at him in shock. I had never told him my name. "H-how did you know? Your not some kind of, some kind of stalker are you."

"Know what?" he said nonchalantly, digging into another hamburger.

"My name."

"Did I say I knew it?"

"You said my name. When you thanked me."

He smiled, and his eyes were twinkling. "Did I now?"

"How do you know?"

"I'm not some stalker, if that's what you're worried about." He lowered the hamburger as he coughed again. His coughing seemed to becoming less frequent. Maybe he wasn't as sick as I had originally thought.

"Then how do you know my name?"

He shrugged and took another bite of the hamburger, but he locked gazes with me, blue eyes deep, and bright as the summer sky. I had the sudden urge to hug him, a sudden surge of protectiveness toward this man that I had just met and somehow knew my name. "Who are you?" I asked, chilled by the feelings, and yet feeling safer than I ever had.

He smiled and swallowed, extending a hand. "Alfred Jones, at your service." He coughed and looked back at me expectantly. I took his hand and shook it, firmly, like my daddy had taught me.

He smiled as our hands separated. "That was a proper shake."

"Thanks, my dad taught me how to do it properly."

His eyes were soft. "Your dad was a good man?"

I nodded. "Always spoke of America as though he had grown up in it, thought it all came from stories his grandfather told him about his grandparents."

He nodded, looking almost as though he was agreeing with me. He finished the second hamburger and leaned back on the cough, his sigh turning into a cough. "That was a good burger. Thank you," and he said my name again.

It sent thrills down my spine, the way he said my name. It was frightening, like he knew everything about me, and yet satisfying because I was _somebody _to him, someone who mattered.

"So, Alfred, who are you, I mean really? And why are you sick?"

He leaned forward and fixed his shining blue eyes on mine. Staring into them, I felt as though he had seen a millennium. His eyes spoke of war, famine, pain. They spoke of laughter, joy, unity. They spoke of laws being passed, alliances formed, nations destroyed, trusts being broken. His eyes had seen the past, had seen the future, and even now saw the whole present.

I caught my breath. "Wh-what are you?"

"Oh, my child," he placed a hand on my cheek. "People like you are why I'm still breathing. Why I'm still here." He reached up and put his other hand on my face and smiled. Suddenly, I could smell the salt of an ocean, see the stretches of grain, hear the birds in a thousand trees, feel the wind whistle through the canyons. I could smell exhaust and rain, see the lights of a hundred cities, hear a thousand voices, feel every emotion all at once.

I could feel tears running down my face and realized that my eyes had shut even as I shuddered to breathe. "A-America."

The man in front of me, Alfred Jones, America, smiled. "Yes," he breathed, and the weight he seemed to be carrying lifted and his eyes were bright with unshed tears and happiness.

"You're America." I didn't ask how. It was just right.

He nodded and lowered one hand to my chest. "I am America, and you are my child, loyal even when all seems lost. Thank you."

I put my hands over his, one on my cheek, the other on my chest, heart beating steadily against his hand. "Oh, America. Will you ever return?"

He smiled. "I don't know, but so long as you continue my legacy, I will remain."

I swallowed hard. "How did it happen?" I asked quietly.

His eyes dropped, though I clung to his hands, feeling their hidden strength. Once, they could crush nations. Now, they trembled in my much smaller grasp.

"People forgot," he whispered softly. "Our ideals became unimportant. They gave up, buried the Constitution, the Declaration, everything we, I, fought for."

I squeezed his hands tightly. "Not everyone."

He smiled sadly. "So many did. I am so close to fading already, but people that still cling to the ideals, cling to my name, keep my clinging onto to life, breathing, thinking, _feeling_."

I nodded and acted on an impulse, hugging him tightly. "Don't worry, America, I won't let you fade. I won't let my nation fall."

He returned the hug, cheeks growing wet. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you." I held him until he fell asleep.

I lay him down gently on the couch, covering him and smiled down at my sleeping nation. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, perhaps not even in my lifetime, but someday, Alfred Jones, America, my country, would return to its, his, former glory. I would make sure of it.

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**The End. I don't know what you expected. *shrugs* Sorry.**

**Please review, point out errors, criticism is always welcome, etc. but please try to be nice and no flames.**


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